Life's Lessons
by SGC Gategirl
Summary: The wrong place, at the wrong time.


Life's Lessons

AUTHOR: SGC Gategirl

STATUS: Complete

RATING: Ages 15+

CATEGORY: Angst, character death, AU, John's POV

SUMMARY: In the wrong place, at the wrong time.

SPOILERS: Nothing specific. Takes place in season two.

WARNINGS: Death of a major character

WORD COUNT: approximately 1,100

AUTHOR'S NOTES: I'm not quite sure where this came from, but it's been haunting me for several days now. So, after some deliberation, I figured I might as well write it down. I blame the muse entirely for this one.

Thanks to Toni and Yllek for the encouragement and Hoo and Steph for the quick beta. All mistakes left behind are mine.

ARCHIVE: Do not archive without the author's express permission.

DISCLAIMER: The Stargate, SGA, the Wraith, and all characters that have appeared in the series STARGATE ATLANTS, together with the names, titles, and back story, are the sole copyright property of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios Inc., the SciFi Channel, and Acme Shark. This fanfic is not intended as an infringement upon those rights and solely meant for entertainment. All other characters, the story idea, and the story itself are the sole property of the author.

* * *

Life's Lessons 

By SGC Gategirl

"There are endless sufferings to endure and endless lessons to learn."

—Chinese proverb

"The lessons of life amount not to wisdom, but to scar tissue and callus."

— Wallace Stegner, "The Spectator Bird"

* * *

They found him in the valley, alongside a stream, the water washing his blood away. 

From where John knelt, his knees sinking into the sandy shore, he could see the top of the Stargate just over the rise.

Glancing back down at the too still and pale body, he tried not to look at the gunshot wound, the angry red standing out starkly from the blue shirt, marring its otherwise pristine condition. He wished things had been different, wished they hadn't ended this way. He wished he would have listened, paid more attention to the signals and clues that had been present.

Maybe then, things would have worked out differently.

Standing several feet away and slightly turned so John couldn't see the devastation on his face, Carson was talking quietly into his radio, readying Atlantis and the medical staff for what was to come through the gate. The initial request for a stretcher had been met with a long silence and John had pulled the earpiece from him, tossing it to the ground, gesturing sharply for someone, anyone, to answer Weir's questions. Someone else could deal with the logistics.

His best friend was dead.

It was supposed to be an easy mission. Teyla knew the villagers, had traded with them before. They were a gentle people, she'd said, fair and trust-worthy. She remembered warm welcomes and feasts, laughter and openness.

They'd met them with hesitant smiles and cold shoulders. 'This doesn't feel right,' Rodney kept saying, his blue eyes flickering uneasily throughout the village. Teyla merely patted his arm and told him it was their way; the way in which they dealt with strangers.

John had listened to Teyla.

Was it because he wanted to believe that they would help them; give them the things they needed in order to survive? Maybe he needed to believe. It seemed that at every turn they were beaten back, turned aside, refused. Word had spread about the Wraith, about who was responsible for waking them with their limitless hunger. And their enemies were proving to be more cunning than they originally anticipated, swallowing up worlds until they had been turned to their own ideologies.

He'd told Rodney to keep it down, to behave, not to spook the natives. He could still feel the heat of the other man's gaze even though the body beside him was growing colder with every passing minute.

But even before John could draw another breath, they'd been pulled apart. He'd been separated from his team as natives poured in from all sides brandishing weapons that they shouldn't have, couldn't have. He'd wanted to yell 'where did you get those from"', but instead he'd ordered his team to retreat, to get back to the gate and away from the sea of bodies pinning them in, trying to wrestle them to the ground.

He'd killed more than he could count, but the scream of his P90 gave them room to maneuver, enabling them to retreat back to the gate. McKay had managed to break free first and John ordered him to dial the gate, assuring the scientist with a single nod and a glance that they'd be right behind. Rodney knew how to take care of himself—he'd learned those lessons well—but a quick glance toward Ronon assured John that Rodney wouldn't be alone for long. Teyla had Carson beside her, protecting him even as he tried to defend himself, holding his nine millimeter with something akin to fear and loathing.

The natives scattered and they turned and ran.

Gunshots sounded all around them, some even nipping at their heels. How much time had passed during their headlong flight? A few minutes? An hour? His body was dragging in each and every breath, begging for oxygen as he ducked and dodged, firing when he could get adequate cover. He'd lost sight of the rest of his team in the thickest part of the forest, but he didn't worry. They knew the routine. They knew what to do.

But when they reached the gate, their pursuers had vanished into the mists of the planet leaving an empty field and a lone DHD.

Panic settled into John's belly as he keyed his radio, speaking quietly, urgently. "Rodney, come in." He held his breath, waiting for the reply. Hissing, he tried again, his eyes scanning the tree-line. "Rodney, answer me."

An unnatural silence filled the air. Ordering Carson to dial the gate, he set out with Ronon, leaving Teyla to guard the doctor. He knew what they'd find.

Moving quietly, his gun at the ready, he crested the hill only to see a crumpled grey-clothed figure facedown in the water. Another figure—clothed in rustic brown with a Genii rifle clutched in his hands—was caught in a tangle of plants and trees, buffeted by a current that threatened to pull the body downstream.

Ignoring Ronon's protests, he flung himself forward, stumbling and nearly falling several times on the uneven ground, his eyes fixed firmly on his friend, the hand holding the nine millimeter pistol, and the red-tinted water that swirled downstream.

Rodney had defended himself, killing his attacker before succumbing himself. He'd been a good student, learning by necessity the things John taught.

The next bit seems to blur in John's memory—splashing through the water; pulling Rodney to shore while trying to ignore the unresisting body beneath his hands; screaming for Rodney to breathe, to stop bleeding as he knelt in the shallows beside his friend's unmoving form; Carson shoving him to the side as his team held him back; telling him the words he didn't want to hear.

"There's nae a thing I can do."

Rage and anguish threatened to bubble over, but he held it back. He had to.

Shrugging off the comforting hands of his team, he stumbled forward, splashing a little as he dropped beside his friend. They tried to talk to him, but he pushed their concern aside, falling back on his professionalism. Soon, only Ronon was at his side, watching the woods with great care as Carson and Teyla returned to the gate. His musings were only interrupted by Elizabeth's voice in his ear, demanding an update, demanding to know what had gone wrong, what happened.

He thought Ronon picked up his earpiece from where he flung it, but he didn't care. Today, his best friend died at the hands of people he'd thought were friends, possible allies.

That's the last time he'd ever make that mistake.

But what a price to pay for a lesson he already knew.


End file.
